Page 15 of Alibi for Murder
“If you have a package,” the muffled voice echoed over the speaker next to the doorbell, “just leave it at the door.”
Steve glanced at Allie. “Mr. Rivero, this is Steve Durham of the Colby Agency in Chicago. I need a moment of your time, sir.”
“Who isshe?” the voice demanded.
Allie had just noticed the camera tucked into the soffit over their heads. Well, of course he had cameras. She had considered adding a few herself but never got around to it. Maybe she should.
“Allie Foster,” she answered. “You may have known my father, Jerry Foster. He was a technician at Ledwell before being killed in a car crash.”
The silence went on and on. Her stomach twisted into knots. Was his hesitation because he did know her father? Or because she had mentioned Ledwell?
“You were working on a big story related to Ledwell,” Steve said, obviously hoping to prompt a response other than silence. “We just want to ask you a few questions about what happened back then.”
“I can’t help you,” the disembodied voice muttered.
Desperation rose sharply in Allie. Red was convinced this man knew something, which meant Allie needed to talk to him. “Thomas Madison is dead. Murdered. They think I killed him, and I don’t even know him. I believe his murder is somehow related to what happened to my parents. Please, Mr. Rivero, I really need your help.”
“What you need,” the man inside the house snapped, “is to go home and forget anything you think you know because I promise you, you don’t knowanything. You don’t want to know anything. Not if you want to stay alive.”
Allie’s jaw dropped. Was this guy for real? “I can’t fight an enemy I don’t recognize,” she argued. The idea might be a bit over the top, but that was exactly how she felt just now. “At least help me determine what I’m up against here.”
“That’s all we’re asking for,” Steve tossed in, “just a few minutes of your time.”
“You’re up against a brick wall,” the voice said. “I can’t help you.”
“You mean,” Allie countered, furious now, “you won’t help me.”
The distinct click of the man inside turning off the intercom link confirmed her conclusion.
“I guess he doesn’t want to talk,” Steve suggested.
“Maybe Red was wrong about him.”
They walked back to the SUV and drove away from the disappointment. Allie abruptly felt lost and utterly out of energy. How had this happened? It made no sense whatsoever. If her grandparents had known there was some big, dangerous mystery, why hadn’t they warned her?
She had to assume they either hadn’t known or expected that as long as she knew nothing about it, the trouble would never come to her.
If that was the case, they had been wrong. She refused to believe they would purposely have left her open to trouble.
“We can always try again,” Steve offered. “We’ll do as much research as we can without his help, and then we’ll hit him up again. Meanwhile, I have some sources I can reach out to.”
Allie couldn’t remember when she’d felt so frustrated. Didn’t reporters like talking about their work? It was possible Rivero was just a burned-out old man who didn’t want to admit that he had no stories left in him. Or that the one he’d been pursuing before his disappearance had turned out to be nothing of relevance.
Bottom line, there was pretty much nothing she could do about Jesus Rivero’s decision. But there was something that would not wait any longer.
“I need a phone.”
“That’s our next stop,” Steve assured her. “We have to get you connected to the world again.”
She wasn’t so sure she’d ever really been connected. Maybe that was her mistake. How did a person provide an alibi for murder or any other crime without a witness—someone who could vouch for them. Allie had no one. No friends—at least none with which she communicated, outside the few at work who only knew her voice. Her alibi was that she had been at home. Alone. Since she rarely left the house, her neighbors certainly couldn’t provide an alibi.
In the eyes of the two FBI agents, that was no alibi at all. An evening with F. Scott Fitzgerald didn’t count.
Foster Residence
Ridgeland Avenue, 11:30 a.m.
Not only didAllie buy a new phone, but she also splurged on a new laptop as well. The one the FBI agents had taken was four years old already. It was time. Besides, who knew when she would get her devices back.
